Cherry Ames Boxed Set 13-16

by Helen Wells

  That was the end of the entries.

  “A silver mine!” exclaimed Cherry.

  “That’s what they were looking for, the Bad Ones!” cried Tammie. “Silver!”

  “Of course, that’s it!” agreed Cherry. “That’s what they must he smuggling out.”

  “The men on the Heron have been digging and carrying silver out,” said Tammie.

  “But, Tammie,” Cherry said, “it must take lots and lots of rocks to make a very little silver.”

  The boy gave her a scornful look. “Ye see that rock,” he asked, pointing to the black rock on the hearth. “That’s real native silver. It’s full of nails, like wire, and they’re pure silver. My da says I know the different rocks and minerals almost as well as he does.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Cherry told him. “But how do these men dig it out? Don’t they have to have drills or something?”

  “Na, na. Not native silver,” replied Tammie. “Ye can dig it out with a bar with a point at one end and a chisel at the other, easy as that.” He snapped his fingers. “And it doesn’t take a lot to make a good bit of silver, either. My da says some of the miners in Mexico used to hollow out the handles of their hammers and fill them with pulverized rocks. Why, they even, some of them, Da said, used to carry enough away in their cigarette papers to sell for several pennies.”

  It was obvious Tammie knew what he was talking about. He was apparently as much of a boy scientist as Old Sir Ian had been in his day.

  Cherry could scarcely believe that she and the boy Tammie had finally uncovered the secret of the abandoned mine. Of course, the discovery of a rich vein of silver could mean a fortune to the Barclays and probably solve all Sir Ian’s financial problems. If Little Joe Tweed’s men had been working the vein and carrying off the silver, they must be stopped.

  Cherry gathered up the little silver balls and the pages of the notebook and put them back into the leather pouch. “Oh, if only Lloyd and Meg were here!” she thought. She put the pouch into her pocket for safekeeping.

  While Cherry had been lost in thought, gathering up the silver pellets, Tammie had been walking up and down in front of the bookshelves.

  “Are you looking for something, Tammie?” she asked.

  He glanced at her, smiling, “Ay. We dinna find Sir Ian’s notebook yet.”

  “Do you think it’s there among the other books?” asked Cherry. She skimmed the titles in their neat rows in the ornate bookcase. Geology and other books on science were all together. Then there were history, biography, fairy tales and ballads, stories of pirates, and factual accounts of explorers and expeditions.

  “When I dinna want anyone to find something,” Tammie said, peering up under the shelves, “I fix it to the underside of something. There was once a boy who used to swipe my marbles, so I taped the bag under my desk and he caudna find them.”

  The shelves were of heavy wood, decorated with carving. A strip of carving perhaps three inches wide ran along the front edge of each shelf. Cherry joined Tammie in peering under the shelves behind the strip of carving, which was quite wide enough to hide a book.

  Tammie knelt down to look at the second shelf from the floor. “Here’s something!” he cried.

  Cherry quickly got her flash, and kneeling down beside the boy, played the light on the shelf. She saw that a wooden box with one side cut away had been nailed to the underside of the shelf. Tammie reached in through the cutaway side and pulled out an old book.

  Cherry and Tammie grinned happily at each other. He handed the book to her and they slowly stood up. Cherry took the book to the table and together they examined it under the candlelight.

  On the spine were the words “The Bo Ha’.” The binding was handmade of white canvas now yellow with age, and on the cover in hand lettering was the full title “Sir Greysteel of Bo Ha’.”

  With rising excitement, Cherry turned back the cover. The first page was filled with handwriting wonderfully clear, even though the paper was yellow and the black ink turned brown. She read aloud to Tammie:

  “‘My journal from my 11th Birthday, 21 June 1881. I am going to keep a daily journal beginning today. I shall set down in it what I do and think and things that happen. I shall tell about exploring and all I find and experiment with, such as plants, bugs, chemicals, but especially rocks and minerals. I mean to be a scientist some day.

  “‘I think it amusing to make a jest of my journal, which is all about real things and happenings, and give it a fairy-tale name, Sir Greysteel of Bo Ha’.’ ”

  Cherry read no further.

  “Is this the notebook Old Sir Ian used to write in every day when he was a boy?” asked Tammie.

  “Yes, Tammie,” Cherry told him excitedly. “This is Old Sir Ian’s secret journal. And you are the one, Tammie, who found it!”

  With trembling fingers, Cherry turned the pages. “See, Tammie,” she said, “the pages are filled with writing. And here at the end is where a page has been torn out. That is the page we found in the leather pouch with the silver—it just matches the book. It was the last page he ever wrote in his journal.”

  Cherry could guess why the torn-out page was the last of the journal. Obviously, the boy had written no more after the time he had been lost for days in Rogues’ Cave. He had been quite ill after that experience. And, as soon as he was well enough to travel, he had been sent to school in Scotland. It was twenty years before he returned to Balfour, a man grown and married, so the story went as Higgins had told Cherry. The secret journal and the secret cranny of silver, if Old Sir Ian ever thought of them again, were a part of the long-ago past, better left undisturbed among the magical adventures of boyhood.

  Cherry became aware that Tammie’s attention had wandered. His head was cocked, listening. The two of them had been so intent on the journal that they had not noticed how quiet everything had become. It would have been quite still outside were it not for the pounding of the surf upon the rocks below the cliffs.

  Tammie padded over to the window, opened the casement, and looked out. “I think the storm’s almost over,” he announced.

  Cherry followed and stood beside him to gaze at the sky, which was full of clouds racing away to the northeast. Now and then a star shone. But the wind still tossed the branches of the trees and the rain spattered their faces.

  “Listen, Miss Ames!” Tammie cried suddenly. “I heard someone cry out down below.”

  Cherry listened. Faintly, as from a great distance, it seemed she could hear a cry. She was not sure, for the waves roared too loudly.

  “There it was again!” exclaimed Tammie. “I heard somebody cry out. It must be Grandda.”

  Tammie darted away. Cherry leaned out, trying to catch the sound of a voice. When she turned to see what Tammie was doing, she found that he had drawn on his boots and was putting on his slicker.

  “I’m going to find Grandda,” Tammie said. Snatching up his sou’wester and his bundle, he dodged past her out the door, and went flying down the stairs.

  “Tammie! Tammie!” Cherry shouted.

  She might as well have called to the wind. Tammie’s footsteps could be heard going down, down, down the flights of stairs. The door on the ground floor slammed shut after him, the bang echoing up the stairwell.

  Cherry had quickly blown out the candles, and, taking her flashlight, raced after him as fast as she could, down the staircase and outside into the storm.

  As she ran, she kept calling, “Tammie! Wait! Tammie, wait! You’ll get hurt!” But there was no answer.

  She went stumbling along the path at the top of the cliffs, shining her flash this way and that, hoping to pick out his figure in the gloom. She called, “Tammie!” No answer. There was no one on the cliffs. She stopped to listen. The only sounds were those of wind and rain and the boom of the surf.

  When Cherry burst into the kitchen, drenched, curls in wild disorder, Tess, the cook, was so much startled that she cried out in alarm.

  “Oh, Miss Cherry! What�
�s happened?” Tess asked. “You’re pale as a ghost!”

  “It’s Tammie!” Cherry cried out. “Little Tammie Cameron. He’s gone. I can’t find him. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  Higgins, who was just returning from a tour of the downstairs windows to see if water had seeped in, heard their voices raised in alarm and came running. He was aghast to find Cherry, who was supposed to be quite dry inside the house, appear of a sudden all wet and dripping pools of water upon the floor like the King of the Golden River.

  The fire in the kitchen fireplace burned up brightly, but Tess and Higgins stood holding candles aloft as if frozen at attention while Cherry breathlessly told them of going to the tower, of Tammie’s arrival, of hearing someone call from below the cliffs, of Tammie rushing out in the belief that it was his grandfather, and of her own fruitless search for the boy.

  Neither Tess nor Higgins asked questions. To find the boy was the important thing.

  In spite of his years, Higgins moved with the agility of youth. Setting down his candle, he plucked his sou’wester and oilskins from a peg on the kitchen wall, and put them on. Then he drew on his boots.

  “Smith and Ramsay,” Higgins said, referring to the chauffeur and the gardener, “are at the stone cottage. I’ll get them and we’ll scour the place.”

  Cherry was all for going with him, but Tess’s strong arms restrained her. “Na, na, Miss Cherry,” Tess said. “Ye waud only hamper the men.”

  Higgins went out into the storm. Cherry and Tess watched him until the darkness swallowed up the glow of his flashlight as he ran toward the stone cottage beyond the west gardens where Smith lived with Hugh Ramsay and his wife.

  “Get off those wet clothes and take a hot bath,” Tess ordered Cherry then, “before ye catch your death.” The sturdy, motherly Scotswoman bundled her off upstairs.

  Cherry tiptoed to Sir Ian’s door and peeked in. It was with profound relief that she saw that Sir Ian was asleep. There was a fire in the fireplace and the room was snug and warm.

  That Sir Ian should have slept during all that time, and in the storm with all its noise, struck Cherry as remarkable. She looked at her watch. It was twenty minutes past midnight. With all that had happened, it seemed years since she had gone up to the tower room. Actually it was less than two hours ago.

  In her own room, Cherry took the leather pouch with its pieces of silver and the page torn from the secret journal, from the pocket of her uniform where it had remained safe throughout her frantic chase after Tammie. She put the pouch with its contents in the top drawer of her bureau. Then she took a hot shower and changed into dry, clean clothes.

  Tess came up with a bowl of hot soup and crackers on a tray.

  “Sit ye doon and drink this,” she ordered, placing the tray on a table and drawing a chair alongside.

  Cherry did as she was bid, grateful to Tess for her thoughtfulness. Tess selected a straight chair from which she could observe Cherry, and perched on it.

  At about Cherry’s fourth spoonful of soup, Tess said abruptly, “Now, Miss Cherry, ye’ll tell me how it happened that ye and Tammie Cameron were up in the tower this night.”

  Cherry swallowed the soup. Tess and Higgins had been in the Barclay family so long, she reflected, that they must know just about everything there was to know. So she told Tess the whole story of going up to look for Old Sir Ian’s secret journal and of how Tammie had arrived with food for his grandfather who had stowed away on the Heron.

  “Jock Cameron and his grandson Tammie will be found cold and dead on the Craigmoddie Rocks, most likely.” Tess wagged her head in the most doleful manner.

  “Oh, don’t say that, Tess!” Cherry exclaimed, horrified at the very thought of such a tragedy.

  “I waudna say it, if I dinna think it,” Tess said with a sigh. “And now that ye tell me Jock stowed away aboard the Heron, it’s unlikely that he will be heard of again. They’ve both been kidnaped and spirited away on the fishing boat, ne’er more to be seen.”

  On this illogical and dismal note, Tess gathered up the dishes and the tray. Admonishing Cherry to try to get some rest, “while ye can, for ye canna tell what tomorrow will bring,” the cook took her departure.

  Cherry was so depressed over the imaginary fate of Tammie and his grandfather that she immediately burst into tears as soon as Tess left. Then she realized how silly it was. With Higgins, Smith, and Ramsay searching for Tammie, surely he would be found. Besides, Old Jock and Tammie knew the island as well as they did the palm of their hands. As for being kidnaped—that was just Tess speaking out of her dour nature.

  It was ridiculous to believe that the Heron’s crew had made off with Old Jock and little Tammie. So far as Cherry knew, the Heron had not even come into port. But where had the fishing boat gone, with Old Jock, the stowaway, and Little Joe Tweed aboard, after leaving St. John’s?

  “I do know one thing, though,” she told herself, drying her eyes and blowing her nose vigorously, “Old Sir Ian found native silver in that Old Mine.”

  She felt she could no longer sit still and continue to puzzle over things. She would go up to the tower on the chance that Tammie had gone back there to Old Sir Ian’s journal, which she had left on the table.

  Taking her flashlight, she once more made her way up to the top of the tower. She lighted the candelabra on the table again and looked about. There was no one there, of course. The odor of melted wax and burned wicks hung heavy in the air from her previous visit.

  A picture of the little figure in his oilskins rose before her eyes and she was filled with despair when she recalled how he had vanished into the stormy night. Going to a window, she looked out to see if she could catch a glimpse of the lights of the three men, searching for Tammie on the cliffs. She could see nothing. It was dark, the sky still obscured by racing clouds. The wind wailed about the walls of the tower, though the storm seemed spent and the earlier uproar had subsided.

  She left the window, picked up the journal, and blowing out the candles made her way back downstairs.

  Upon looking into Sir Ian’s room, she found him asleep, appearing very comfortable and relaxed.

  “I’m wide awake,” Cherry thought, “so I might as well sit in here as in my own room.” She settled herself in the chair by the fire.

  She opened the journal where she had left off and began to read of the daily thoughts and happenings of a boy who lived in that same house so long ago.

  After a while the writing blurred on the page. Cherry closed her smarting eyes for a few minutes to rest them. Her head nodded several times and she leaned it against the back of the chair. She fell sound asleep.

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Wreck

  CHEERY WOKE, STARTLED, TO FIND THAT THE CANDLE had long since burned out and only a blob of wax remained in the holder. While she slept, daylight had crept into the room. The journal lay open in her lap to the page where she had left off reading.

  She turned her head to look at her patient and saw Sir Ian gazing at her with a fatherly smile.

  “Did my heart good to see ye sleeping like a bairn,” he commented.

  Cherry grinned back at him sheepishly and rubbed her eyes. “I was reading and all of a sudden …” Her voice trailed off. Into her mind leaped her worry over Tammie. She must find out at once whether he had been found. She was on the point of springing from her chair when Sir Ian’s calm tones brought her back to herself.

  “You fell asleep,” Sir Ian was saying. “I slept like a top myself. And I feel grand. I’m going to get up.”

  “Now, you mustn’t,” Cherry admonished. “It’s too early. Goodness! What time is it?” She looked at her watch. It was not quite seven o’clock.

  There were sounds of footsteps in the hall and, in a moment, Dr. Mackenzie thrust his tousled head inside the doorway. His face was gray with fatigue, his clothes rumpled. But he appeared in good spirits.

  “Barometer’s rising and the storm’s practically over,” he announced. Then he said to Cherry, �
�Tess told me I’d find you here,” and to Sir Ian, “What are you doing awake at this hour?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be after a long night’s rest?” retorted the mine owner.

  “Did you ever see such a contrary old Scotsman?” Dr. Mac asked Cherry, with a wink of an eye blood-shot from lack of sleep. “The storm and turmoil kept everyone else on the island up.”

  “If ye are speaking for yourself, Mackenzie,” said Sir Ian, “I can well believe it. From the looks of ye, I’d vow ye’d not touched head to pillow in a week.”

  “It seems that long,” the other agreed ruefully. “Well, I’m glad to see you so chipper, Sir Ian.” He walked over to the bed to have a good look at his patient. “Color’s good,” he commented. Then he took Sir Ian’s pulse and nodded with satisfaction. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Hungry,” replied Sir Ian.

  “Good. But how do you feel generally speaking?” insisted the doctor.

  “If ye canna tell I feel grand this morn,” the other replied in his richest Scottish burr, with a wicked little grin, “I dinna think ye are muckle of a medical mon.”

  With that he tossed back the covers and swung his long, pajama-clad legs off the bed, and began putting on his robe.

  “Sir Ian has been giving every indication of getting well,” Cherry replied, “including behaving in a very independent manner. He was busy for hours in the library yesterday.”

  “Are ye through discussing me?” demanded Sir Ian, glaring at them, but with a merry twinkle in his eye. “I’d count it a favor for the both of ye to get out and let a man dress.”

  “Seeing that by your own expert diagnosis, you are feeling strong and well, sir,” said Dr. Mac with exaggerated stiffness, “I am no longer in doubt about asking a favor of you and of Cherry.” His tone changed and he became completely serious. “Cherry, you did get some rest, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did, Doctor,” Cherry replied.

  “Ask your favor and be done,” Sir Ian said bluntly.

  “We need a nurse badly,” Dr. Mac said. “Nurse Cowan, Meg, and the others are pretty worn out, although we all managed to get a little rest off and on.”